


Paint me in your Sunshine

by SoSheWasWritingRachel (HurricaneBomb)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But also, I APOLOGIZE, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Plot What Plot, Porn What Porn, Teenlock, artist!lock, i guess, idk - Freeform, kind of, pathetic excuse of porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricaneBomb/pseuds/SoSheWasWritingRachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was a second year student at St Bartholomew's, and he planned on becoming a surgeon upon graduation. He was also on Bart's rugby team and, between studying and team practise, he barely had enough free time.</p><p>And what did he do during his free time? He modelled for Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint me in your Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisemptyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisemptyheart/gifts).



> Written for shezzaswatson on tumblr. 
> 
> Their prompt was: "What if Sherlock was going into Year 13 in school and he was trying to create a portfolio because he’s trying to get into an art program at uni and he can’t find someone who will model for him and then John comes along (maybe Sherlock’s at a park trying to draw and John’s on his daily jog and sees him) and offers to model and then things can… happen." I followed it as best as I could.
> 
> I am unforgivably late, and I apologize, between uni and other things in real life, this sadly wasn't a priority. I'd like not to make excuses, though; it's still unforgivably late. And this is only about half of it.  
> Also, this is the first fic I've posted online, and my first attempt at writing smut in years, so... be nice?
> 
> [the actual smut will be in the next and final chapter]
> 
> P.S.: Do tell me if I've missed sth.

'I said hold still.'

'Jesus, Sherlock, you've had me in this position for hours, can't I take a break?'

'If you relax now, there's no guarantee you'll be able to get into this exact position again, and you'll ruin three solid hours of good work; meaning I'll have to make you do this next week as well. Now, hold still.'

John huffed, but was careful not to move too much in doing so. He wondered indignantly how he managed to get himself into this, but he knows he's only just tired. He wouldn't change a thing.

John was a second year student at St Bartholomew's and he planned on becoming a surgeon upon graduation. He was also on Bart's rugby team, but he wasn't particularly good at rugby, or at least not as good as some of his teammates were, so he stayed out of a few matches on occasion. Still, between studying and team practise, he barely had enough free time.

And what did he do during his free time? He modelled for Sherlock Holmes.

Over the past three months, John broke up with two girlfriends who demanded more of his time and fought with his mates more times than he could count for never showing up. He was never an extremely likable person -in fact he has been told was bloody awful-, but spending most of his free time with Sherlock got him even more alienated from his peers.

He didn't mind. Sherlock was special. Really special. Sherlock was in his final year of college and he aspired to become the next Leonardo Da Vinci. He had the talent for it, truly. And up to three months ago, he only lacked a model to draw in order to fill the requirements for his portfolio and get accepted in one of the most prestigious art schools in the UK.

 

Meeting Sherlock got John into much more than he had signed up for. He had been running in the park as part of his morning routine, when he stumbled on Sherlock while the blond was trying to avoid running into a woman and her dog. Upon collision, Sherlock had spilled his coffee all over himself, getting his suit and shirt stained. John had kept apologizing, saying how he hadn't seen him at all and how he’d pay for the dry-cleaning, but Sherlock had been unusually calm for someone who'd just gotten soaked in his own coffee. He’d insisted all was fine and that money and dry-cleaning wasn't a problem. John had tried to protest and offer to do something for the man regardless. It was then that he’d noticed a certain gleam in Sherlock's eyes. The young man had straightened his back and said, 'Yes... Perhaps there is something you could do.'

Sherlock had then explained that he wanted to become an art student and that he must create a portfolio to show upon request. However, he could not complete certain projects without a model. Yes, he knew he had the talent to just draw a human being in certain positions without reference, but that wasn't the point of the exercise. He had to find someone willing to model for him. Sherlock had regarded him for a moment and he seemed to decide something on his own as he proceeded to ask John if he was willing to take the part. John had been eager to accept, too guilt-ridden to refuse. Sherlock suggested he should take him to see the space he worked in as well as some of his latest work, and let John decide for himself. He’d led him to his atelier on Baker Street, which was in fact an actual flat (with two bedrooms), though the area that was supposed to be the living room was taken over by art supplies and easels. John had just stood there, awestruck at most of the paintings Sherlock kept in the studio. Sherlock had given John his phone number and told him to give him a call when he had decided.

As John walked down the stairs to the front door, he decided he would be kidding himself if he said he needed to think this through... as if he didn't want to see more of the guy's work, or more of the man himself. So he’d walked back upstairs and struck a deal.

 

'Your hands are slipping again.'

'It's no wonder, with the position you have me in!'

'You're changing the shadows!'

_'I've been in this position for hours!!'_

Sherlock sighed loudly and tossed his pencil on the table next to him. 'Fine. Get down from there.' John gladly lowered his arms, which were tangled together with a long, white satin ribbon in a complicated design over his head, and got off the stool. He could feel his muscles burn and throb at every move, and he was washed with relief when he finally got to sit down on the ornate loveseat Sherlock had in his atelier.

'Oh, no. You're not resting,' he heard Sherlock say as soon as his back touched the cushions.

His head shot up. 'What?'

Sherlock had gotten up from his seat and was now approaching him with a bottle of cold water, straight out of the fridge. The dark haired teen tossed him the bottle.

'We're doing a different pose. You still have a few hours left before you go, and I must have something done by the end of the day.' John’s protests must have shown on his face before he managed to voice them, because he added, 'Don't worry, this one won't be as straining. Drink up first.'

John shot a glare in his direction, but uncapped the bottle and had a few sips. As soon as he placed the bottle on the floor next to the loveseat, Sherlock sprung into action, moving the easel to a better position and renewing his supply of needed materials splayed on the table for easier access while working.

'Take off your jeans.'

John looked up at him in shock; he'd never needed to undress completely.

'Why?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You get to keep your pants, John, now hurry up.'

'Why do you want me to strip down to my pants?'

'Because I want to do the muscle-work!'

'Then why didn't you strip me before?!'

'I told you, I was drawing you waist up!!'

John huffed loudly, but he got up to take off his jeans. He knew, as much as Sherlock possibly did, that his protests were mostly for show; he'd never been able to deny the man anything.

Soon he stood in the middle of the atelier with nothing but his red pants. Of course he had to be wearing these pants on the day he stripped for Sherlock Holmes. John felt his face heating up as he stood awkwardly in shame before him, and he coughed in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. He tossed his jeans to the pile of his things on the sofa and he jerked when he felt a hand on his shoulder. John’s head shot up as Sherlock pushed him on the loveseat.

'Lie down,' he commanded, and it was hard to see it as anything but an order.

John lay down and let Sherlock orchestrate his limbs into a pose, as he often did. He still felt embarrassed as hell, and that was a feat on its own, since John found himself stark naked in the locker room with a bunch of sweaty (and equally naked) guys on a regular basis. Yet there was something about Sherlock... something he was afraid to even think about, let alone acknowledge, outside the confines of his dorm room late at night. John was sure he was furiously flushed, and he could feel the beginnings of an erection, but Sherlock either didn't notice, or didn't care.

A part of him silently prayed it was the first.

Only after his hands were positioned around his head did he realize what the arrangement was. He raised an eyebrow playfully in silent inquiry as he glanced up at Sherlock, who was adjusting the floor lamp next to the loveseat to the way he wanted the lighting to be for this drawing. Sherlock turned to him in order to inspect the final arrangement and make sure everything was ready and exactly as he wanted it. He frowned when he saw the look on John's face. 'What?'

'Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.' Sherlock's eyebrows drew closer in confusion.

'What?'

John giggled. 'Nothing. Go on. Work your magic.' Sherlock only narrowed his eyes at John, but said nothing and, with a lingering gaze, stepped backwards and walked back to his easel. He repositioned it so he could face John properly, sat down on his stool, and _looked._

Sherlock had a certain way of doing things. John was quite sure no other artist in the world worked the way Sherlock did, but it wasn't like he knew anything about art or painting. Still, he was certain that no other human being that had been, was or ever would be, could look at anything and take it apart just by looking. John could feel Sherlock's eyes reaching into his very core, and it had taken him a long time to get used to not squirming or looking away at the intensity of the other's gaze.

As usual, Sherlock spent an endless amount of time looking at John. Studying him; his pose and his entire existence, taking him in. John stared back, saying nothing; simply breathing. Sherlock's eyes lingered at various places on his body, his hands, his face, his torso; John felt extremely self-conscious, suddenly registering his lack of attire on his lower body, as Sherlock later promptly stared at his crotch with an unreadable expression on his face. John could never tell how long this stage lasted. It could have been minutes, or maybe hours. He never complained; it didn't matter. Part of him relished having Sherlock's undivided attention.

At last, Sherlock picked up a pencil from the small table next to him and started working on sketching John in his arrangement. He always sketched his project roughly first before adding all the details and any potential colouring. John didn't know if this was standard procedure or something only Sherlock did. He did this even when working on a canvas, before painting with acrylics or whatever else he used. John may have modeled for Sherlock Holmes for the past three months, but he still didn't remember the subtle differences between certain material; something that earned him many disdainful glares and multiple creative insults to his intelligence.

Sherlock never stopped looking back and forth between his drawing and John, and his eyes never lost their gleam of absolute focus they had at the first stage. It was always a powerful look, which always made Sherlock seem lost inside his head, though also very much present in the room while sketching. It was that look that had John captivated from the first time he modeled for Sherlock, and had kept him there, enslaved under its intensity. And that look had been the start of whatever it was John was feeling inside for Sherlock, growing stronger and stronger each time it was directed at him.

 

Time passed. A shiver ran through his body and the he opened his eyes. He must have snoozed where he lay, yet his body was still in position. John felt the hair on his body rising as he registered the coolness of the room, in contrast to the warmth inside him. They forgot to turn the heating up again, he mused.  A quick look around the room indicated the sun had gone down a while ago, and the only light in the house was the floor and ceiling lamps in the living room. Sherlock hadn’t moved from his stool, but he had stopped drawing completely, his hand frozen in the air, staring at John. John was about to ask if he’d finished, when he noticed the way Sherlock was looking at him. The fire in his eyes was not the flame of concentration on his art and the task at hand. Sherlock looked positively _hungry._

John’s breath caught at the sight and his mouth felt suddenly dry. He swallowed and watched as Sherlock followed the movement with his eyes. Sherlock watched him as a predator would its prey, and John felt exposed, more than usual, under the weight of that gaze, as goosebumps covered his skin. Neither could look away. John felt himself flush and he found it hard to breathe. He sucked shaky breaths while he tried to control the beating of his heart.

‘Sher-’ He cleared his throat and tried again.

‘Is- is the drawing finished? Are we done?’ Sherlock said nothing as he slowly set his pencil on the table.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Your skin glows under the proper light,’ the dark haired teen said. ‘It’s one of the reasons I decided to approach you. Then, of course, was your built and body structure; I welcomed the challenge of putting all that on paper.’

John blinked once. Twice. ‘I thought you asked me to model for you because I got your suit stained.’ Sherlock smirked, but it was faint; very unlike the smug smirks he so often wore.

‘That was, in fact, my plan to get you into this. I had actually meant to do that weeks before you soaked me in cheap coffee.’

That was new. John stared up at Sherlock, who had risen from his stool with slow, calculated moves, his eyes never leaving John, observing him.

The notion of Sherlock noticing him weeks before they met and constructing a plan that would leave John unable to refuse should normally creep John out of his mind. It should make him mad and probably a little repulsed. Yet John felt nothing but a flutter in his chest, because this meant that Sherlock (rude, insulting, restless and uncaring about people’s opinions) spent weeks orchestrating a very silly -yet very effective- plan, just to talk to him. He spent weeks observing him in his morning routine, instead of walking right there and then and demanding his assistance, as John had found was the Sherlock way to do things.

He stared as Sherlock approached him with purpose, eyes never losing their heat from before. The determination in Sherlock’s movements made John rather uneasy as something stirred inside him, and his limbs strayed from the pose as he sat up. ‘Um, the drawing, is it done?’ he asked, in a poor attempt to compose himself and conceal how Sherlock’s advances and unwavering eyes unravelled him.

Sherlock lowered himself to his knees on the floor right next to John and pushed him back down on the loveseat. ‘No,’ he said, voice exceptionally low and husky, ‘but I am.’ John could only stare wide-eyed, his mouth agape, at Sherlock’s hand as it softly landed on his abs and slid slowly, almost torturously, upwards. The hand felt incredibly warm in contrast to the coolness that surrounded them.

John took a shaky breath in. ‘What- what are you doing?’

Sherlock’s index finger brushed against one of John’s nipples. ‘What I should have done long ago.’ Before John could even think of a reply, Sherlock continued.

‘I have specifically instructed you not to move while you’re posing,’ he said, his finger idly teasing John’s nipple. John’s breaths gradually started to quicken, and he could feel something coil in his lower abdomen as his member gave a twitch. God, he was half-hard already.

‘But I- I didn’t move a finger! I merely snoozed!’ John protested rather meekly. His nipples had both perked up and he got goosebumps all over his body for reasons completely irrelevant to the cold.

‘No. Not a finger,’ Sherlock agreed. He dipped his head forward and licked a stripe on John’s abdomen. John’s face paled as the other’s words finally sank in. Images flooded John’s mind, though, while he’d certainly had them before, they somehow felt recent. Very recent.

Sherlock, who hadn’t taken his eyes off John’s face for a second, smirked smugly the moment he saw realization dawn on John. ‘You do moan rather loudly when you’re having a wet dream,’ he said, voice thick with arousal.

John flushed and shifted uncomfortably, seeing as Sherlock basically had him pinned down on the loveseat. Sherlock came closer and leaned over his ear. ‘It completely distracted me from my Work,’ he whispered, his breath blowing softly against John’s ear, ‘especially when you said my name.’

The mostly-naked teen took a shaky breath. It felt like a vacuum was sucking the oxygen out of the room, but it was just Sherlock. Sherlock always had an effect on him, and they’ve never been this close before.

Sherlock pinched his nipple lightly and dragged him back to the present. ‘I want your full attention, John,’ he demanded, and John could do nothing but watch the hand that teased him slowly slide down his stomach; he gasped when it reached his pants and bucked his hips involuntarily as it ghosted over his erection, only to bypass it completely and land on his inner thigh, stroking in lazy circles.

‘Sher-’ Sherlock’s head dipped lower and John was startled by the feeling of warm, wet lips on his neck. He let out a moan -the first one while he was conscious- and his breaths gradually became heavy pants as those lips planted open-mouthed kisses all over, licking and biting lightly, just the drag of teeth on his sensitive skin.

‘Tell me what you want, John,’ Sherlock breathed against his neck, and the sensation of Sherlock’s warm breath against the wetness of his neck made John shiver. The hand that wasn’t on John suddenly came to rest on his shoulder and the fingers stroked the skin there idly. Sherlock nudged John’s cheek with his nose, a movement that made John turn his head away and expose more of his neck. Instead, Sherlock went for the ear. He took John’s earlobe in his mouth and sucked, before biting it gently and letting it out with a wet pop. John whimpered.

‘Come on, John, tell me what you want.’

‘God-- Touch me, Sherlock, please--’ the blonde groaned as a hand stroked his unmasked arousal through the fabric. Sherlock huffed a laugh when he felt the wet patch on John’s pants.

‘Eager, are we?’ he teased, and his fingers kept stroking John in feather touches. John was bucking his hips in an attempt for more contact on his aching member. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he was this hard.

‘Christ, Sher- Just--’

‘Alright, John. I’ll give you what you want.'

And with that, he took his hands off of John and rose to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't a bad place to cut it. A big thank you to avarcir and kankyuuhin who took time from their lives to beta the thing. Any mistakes are mine, after ignoring their advice or having altered sth after they edited.
> 
> Chapter 02: I'll Follow.
> 
> Note that the Rating will go up to Explicit.


End file.
